Mercvry 94

Malcolm sheppard doesn’t know it yet but he is about to…

Well…i’ll let him tell you all about it.

         Pondering the phone in my hand, I pretend it isn’t really ringing.

“Who’s that?!” Olivia asks, creeping up beside me.

         “No one,” I reply with disinterest.

         Pocketing the device, I look up just in time to catch her dirty look.

         “What?!”

         Olivia rolls her eyes, then, with practiced affection, grabs my arm and leads the walk away from the movie theater, down East Twelfth street.

As we stroll home towards Alphabet City, the sun is out working overtime in the late summer evening, bathing a gallery of tourists and natives. Identifying somewhere between the two after three years of study at NYU, I must say I don’t hate living in New York City. Cynicism has always been part of my DNA as a native Bostonian and so I fit perfectly here.

Still, in any form, in any city, beauty is hard to ignore; lukewarm evening sunlight hits me with a picturesque vision encompassing a few of the brick edifices ahead, the vibrant graffiti defying decorum and the luscious shine of the asphalt road ahead of us.

These are all familiar facets of NYC, things I’ve seen before, but today they appear flagrantly, fresh to perceive.

Sometimes, beauty can be forceful.  

         On cue, the fiery, beautiful force of a woman holding my arm starts a speech she has been repressing or practicing internally since silence began a minute ago. She lets out a sigh first and then starts with, “Mi amor, I just think it’s petty that–”

“Oh…petty , uh?”